


Butcher of Blaviken

by Silviiarts



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Sad Geralt, Sad Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Unresolved Emotional Tension, blaviken feels, blaviken mention, renfri mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:35:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23735473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silviiarts/pseuds/Silviiarts
Summary: After a long time travelling in silence and fueling Jaskier's curiosity, Geralt finally shares the origin of that nickname everyone calls him, 'Butcher of Blaviken'.Except it's rather a heartwrenching memory for him, not a great adventure, as the bard had thought.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Kudos: 76





	Butcher of Blaviken

The lute's chords rattled like the tinder that fed their fire, clear and almost loud in the otherwise dead silence of the night.

After a long day of work, very much needed to earn some coin, the bard loved to put his hands and instruments to the test; check if they could come up with a nice melody.

Geralt didn't mind the music, nor the musician's soft voice humming the lyrics that came to his mind. It was amusing, even.

He rested his back against Roach's plump back quarters, eyes closed and arms under his head like a pillow. Resting was a luxury reserved for the early night, when Jaskier was still awake in case that any danger showed up.

He was resting, but he wasn't asleep. And Jaskier knew this, so it wasn't uncommon for him to ask the witcher for advice every now and then.

"Hey, Geralt?"

"Hm."

"Does 'adventure' rhyme well with 'together' here?"

"... Hm..."

"Eh, that's what I thought. Thanks!"

And so they would spend hours and hours every evening. The witcher would gladly listen to all of his friend's tunes, although he didn't seem like it, and the bard would be pleased to share all his doubts and progress with him.

"Geralt?"

"Hm..."

"What rhymes with 'Blaviken'?"

The witcher's eyes slowly opened. He shifted, sitting up against his horse to stare at Jaskier.

"Why?"

"What do you mean why? I can't sing about the Butcher of Blaviken without it falling at the end of a verse at least once!"

But Geralt didn't reply this time; not even the slightest of growls.

Jaskier was waiting for an answer and Geralt refused to give it. But it made the air feel tense after a while.

"... Geralt?"

"Isn't a punch to the junk enough for you to learn?" He finally growled in the lowest tone, startling Jaskier.

Geralt could even wonder, even if it broke something inside, whether Jaskier was just doing that to test him, poke fun or, even worse, because he didn't care.

And those thoughts made his fierce, feline eyes glow like embers in the dim light, which sent chills down Jaskier's back.

"Oh God- What do you mean, Geralt?" He asked, scared yet concerned.

At least, he seemed so.

It took so much of Geralt's already scarce patience to calm down his own thoughts and realize that Jaskier was, indeed, confused.

That's why he decided to take a deep breath and spit some angry words to try and make him understand.

"The first time you called me... that," he growled, brows furrowed and jaws clenched. "I thought I had made it clear that I didn't want to hear it again."

"What, Butcher of Bla..."

"Yes. God fucking damn it, _yes_ ," Geralt growled, practically glaring at his companion now.

Jaskier seemed to start understanding that the nickname carried important memories for the witcher. Apparently, not very pleasant ones.

The bard was so used to the epithets used to write that he had paid no mind to what they meant. And, judging by Geralt's expression, it had been a grave mistake.

"Why do they call you that, Geralt?" He asked in the softest voice, after a rather long and uncomfortable silence. “I always assumed that it was… a compliment. For killing a lot of dangerous critters or… something.”

The bard had never seen his witcher so... _distressed_. Not even fighting the most terrifying of monsters in the Continent.

He wasn't even expecting an answer from his companion anymore, when he heard a grunt rasping out his throat.

"Long ago," Geralt muttered, narrow eyes fixed on the quivering flames, "I was offered a deal from one of the most powerful men in Blaviken, a sorcerer."

Jaskier listened, quiet. He wanted to shuffle closer to the other man's side, but he chose to sit opposite of him.

That way, he could watch the emotions -those he claimed to not have, cross his face and cast their own shadows on the tale.

He wasn’t used to hear the witcher speak for so long. The deep, harsh sound of his voice draped over him like a heavy blanket, reminding him of how serious that story was.

"I refused to kill a human. He wanted me to take the life of a runaway princess, born under a curse that turned her into a... mutant."

That last word had sounded almost painful to get out.

"He had tried to hunt her down all her life. He had had her chased, attacked and even raped. I had the chance to meet her, and ended up tangled in the affairs of men."

The snarl that contorted Geralt's expression was stiff, as he tried to keep his feelings to himself. He wasn't supposed to feel, after all, not even hurt in the soul.

"She wanted to kill the sorcerer, but I refused to help her. Her allies attacked me, and I... I killed them all. One by one, in cold blood. I broke so many skulls and ribs and families that day..."

Jaskier's blood ran cold at the strained pain that twisted the witcher's voice. He knew his kind’s potential, everyone did. But that was the first time he had heard about Geralt- _his_ Geralt, killing a human.

Nonetheless, he understood his reasons. And when Geralt tried to pick up the fear or the horror in the bard's scent, he didn't sense any of it.

"We fought. I didn't want to kill her, but I also didn't want to die at the hands of someone who didn't care about living or dying anymore. Without her allies and without my help, she wouldn’t be able to get what she wanted anyway. She surrendered to my blade, and I... I did it."

Geralt's hands twitched into tight fists, elbows resting on his knees. His gaze didn't shift from the fire, as burning as the torment and regret in his voice.

"I had finished the sorcerer’s deed without even having a choice. He wanted to ravage her body, look into her flesh for the origin of the curse. I had killed her, I couldn't let him dishonor her like that, and I thought that, maybe, it could be my redemption...”

The witcher’s lip trembled ever so slightly at the memories that washed over him like a freezing tide. He growled under his breath, fighting his emotions down with all his might.

“I threatened him, but he wasn't afraid. He turned the whole village against me and twisted what had actually happened. They sent me away with stones."

Witchers could heal very well, and all that had happened too long ago for him to have scars from the stoning, other that the wounds that it left in his heart.

Although he had tried to turn Blaviken into a valuable lesson, ‘ _not to get involved with men, never pick a side between them_ ’, all it had given him was a harmful nickname and terrible, awful remorse.

The Butcher of Blaviken, as if he had been the one to let all that blood spill on behalf of his own personal benefit.

"I made friends with a little girl in Blaviken, before anything happened," he rambled on for a little longer, in a strangled whisper. "She was held hostage by Renfri, and it was my fault. She begged me to leave Blaviken, she was so afraid of me..."

Such a story managed to make Jaskier, who always sought for the raw emotions in every tale to turn them into songs, go quiet.

That was no story to be told, to be celebrated. That was a mess of human ambitions and a helping hand that got bitten. The true, raw suffering of the man he loved, and was hated by anyone else.

"Oh, Geralt- my dear Geralt..." He mumbled, trying not to express his regret as pity.

Those words sent a shiver down the witcher’s spine. In all honesty, he expected his companion to get up and leave. To finally see that he was following a beast, turn on his heel and run to the safety and certainty of mankind.

But he didn't.

Instead, he did shuffle closer this time. He placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, and let out a sigh.

"I'm so sorry, Geralt," he mumbled, in the thinnest of whispers. That was loud enough for him to hear.

Rage, fear, sorrow, regret, vengeance. Unable to tell them apart, there were many emotions that weighted on Geralt's heart on that moment. But, out of them, sadness was the heaviest one.

And he was just lucky that Jaskier could read him like an open book.

"People are so cruel, darling..." he muttered, gently stroking his hand up and down his friend's shoulderblade. "That... horrible name is all I had ever heard anyone call you."

The witcher grunted. Not that it surprised him.

"But no one had ever told me how fair you always try to be."

Jaskier's words definitely caught him off guard. He raised an eyebrow and looked back at him.

He was met by a warm smile, despite the tiredness of his usually bright blue eyes.

"Or how caringly you tend to Roach."

His whole body was burning against Jaskier's palm, and it was strangely soothing.

"Not even about the way your pupils grow when you're relaxed! Or what a good man you actually are!"

"Because I'm not."

"Of course you are! A bad person wouldn't regret anything, would they?"

This time, it was Geralt who had to shut up. Partly because he was exhausted, partly because he wasn't going to admit that Jaskier could be right.

Even the crackling if the fire was fainter, quieter; as if it were as touched by the story of the Butcher of Blaviken as Jaskier was.

The witcher's friend brushed his hand through pale locks, almost like petting a startled stray. Although it was that gesture what startled him.

Nonetheless, his gentle smile comforted him.

He wasn't leaving. He wasn't calling him any sort of names and running away in fear. Jaskier was right next to him, much closer than before, touching his hair like it was nothing.

"Hey, Geralt, don't worry..." He whispered, sweet as honey on the witcher's tongue. "It wasn't your fault, okay?"

After almost twenty years living with the weight of Blaviken on his shoulders, it was hard to believe Jaskier's soothing, albeit unbelievable words.

He replied with a soft growl, eyes shifting towards the bard. He pressed a kiss to Geralt’s forehead as soon as he turned, leaving him even more speechless.

"Don't worry too much about what happened... You gotta focus on the present now! I'll make sure to erase that hideous nickname from History. Just let me do my thing, darling~"

"Uh- I doubt you can do that," the witcher replied, barely hushing his words.

"Nu-uh! I already made a hit! The public's hungry for more stories about you. And I will make sure that no one ever calls you that again!"

It was futile to argue with Jaskier when it came to such things. He had already got into a fight with a drunkard that called Geralt a ‘ _mutant beast_ ’ before.

The witcher exhaled a soft sigh and closed his eyes. When he noticed, his chest wasn't aching anymore.


End file.
